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A Seaside Morning, Slowed To Quarter Speed

Smell the flowers while you can. – David Wojnarowicz

You were somewhere deep in the intercourse of a dream
when the alarm went off. You rolled over, killed the alarm,
and glared outside at the low-hanging grayness—then you
pulled yourself out of bed and walked to the kitchen to start
the coffee. You needed more time to sleep, but the time
had already planned its escape, and as the coffee brewed,
you paused for a moment, lulled into a dead stare at the fuel
filling its glass tank and getting ready to ignite. And the vague
lethargy that held you there staring at it knew that you weren't
focused on the liquid but rather the deep, nebulous well its blackness
represented as you watched it climb to the top: the deeper knowledge
that something important was being drained to make room for what
that blackness meant. You forced yourself to look away to the front
door of your small apartment that led to the sundeck overlooking
the boardwalk, and you went to the door, turned the handle,
and stepped outside. The thermometer hanging from the balcony
read 71 degrees. The overcast was immense, and it was the
strangest thing—it wasn’t moving. It was fixed and defiant,
almost laughing, as if a fugitive mass of unconsciousness
had broken free and graffitied the city with thick, heavy paint
stolen from of the sea. And suddenly you forgot—were you really
awake, or still alive, or a disembodied subject for oil and canvas,
smoking a cigarette on the sundeck? The tourists on the beach
were perfect copies of nudes lazing in a steamy meadow, the surf-
boards were bent like blades of wet grass, and even the lifeguards
were lax and luxuriating. The waves tumbled over and over
like playful lovers wrestling in the sand—then a jet liner
leaned into a plush blanket of clouds, and you watched
through scattered breaks in the clouds its fat white belly as it
yawned across the sky. You walked back inside to the kitchen,
leaned your painted figure against the counter, and began pouring
cream for the coffee—but it was so thick and heavy and irrepressibly
sweet, that you left the coffee and filled the cup with cream.
Then you picked up the phone and planned your escape.

Sometimes, their is an irrepressible urge to give in to your anarchistic impulses…triggered by a day that seduces you with its simple yet intoxicating pleasures that have nothing to do with the workaday world. Thank you for making a simple decision to opt for a bit of freedom so wonderfully enjoyable to read.

I'm Michelle. This is my blog. I write about women and fatness, expound upon semi-coherent thoughts I have in the middle of the night, and offer tough love to those in whom I am disappointed; they are legion.